Pyrexia
by solitary thrush
Summary: Will falls ill with a high fever at the end of case. Hannibal takes care of him. Written early in season 1. Classic hurt/comfort, unresolved sexual tension, intimacy, developing relationship, canon-typical violence, suggestion of sexual acts, vulnerable!Will, creepy!Hannibal. Hannigram fans might enjoy this after "Roti." Cheers.
1. Chapter 1

I wrote this fic in April and put it on AO3, but in light of "Roti," I thought hurt/comfort fans who don't read AO3 might enjoy it. For canon clarification, this fic was written after "Potage" (1x03) with the last chapter influenced by "Coquilles." I think it remains more or less in character but it isn't particularly up to date. Nonetheless, happy reading.

* * *

Will Graham slumps against the rough wooden wall of the old slave quarters back of a former plantation outside Charleston, South Carolina. His eyes burn along the seams when he closes them, blocking out yet another macabre scene. At least he didn't have to shoot anyone this time. Jack's minions cuffed the killer, caught alive, and took him away moments ago. His last victim hangs from the rafters in the small building, still dripping blood.

Will inhales the metallic scent. He's grown so accustomed that he smells it in his dreams now.

Ten young black men, all carefully lynched so they would not die immediately. While they still lived, the killer – Herbert Michael Jost – castrated them, carved invectives into their chests, and gave them the wounds of Christ's Passion. They died slowly of asphyxiation.

He hears someone call out; they've found the horde of genitals. God. Will has seen that cache in his mind's eye. It sickens him.

Will's throat aches when he swallows against the threatening bile. The room is hot and stuffy in spite of the cool winter night. He wants to shed his jacket, but he also wants to stay still. If he could melt into the solid oak planks, he would. Anything to ease his trembling muscles. He curves nails into his palms repeatedly, no longer noticing the pain.

_Nine inch nails through the spook's wrists. He pounds them in place with a carpenter's hammer._

Will stares at the hammer on the table. The bloody blade of the butcher's knife. These are Jost's instruments. Just as he'd known they would be.

Minions cut the body down. James Young, the tenth victim. Gone.

One of the minions brushes past Will and Will flinches. Knives slice his throat when he swallows. Blood. He can taste it. It's not really there – he knows that – he's tasting the stench – but it's too much and he ducks out of the cabin and into the cool night air.

Hannibal follows him.

Will is staring at the flashing lights of local PD cars when Hannibal speaks.

"You don't look well, Will." The words come out rounded and exotic like a heady perfume. "Are you feeling all right?"

Will breathes past the lump in his throat and glances at Hannibal. A caring, kind – if reserved – expression graces Hannibal's face in alternating blue and red.

"Tired," Will manages, releasing his nails from his palms. Hannibal's presence calms him. The subtle shakes of his muscles subside. "I'll be fine."

"Perhaps we should adjourn to the hotel," Hannibal suggests.

Will doesn't speak, doesn't nod; he just starts shuffling toward the rental car. Will's eyes follow his footsteps through the dead leaves. The same path trod by Jost.

_Nails, pounding nails, the bright spray of arterial blood, a bitter tang in his mouth._

He wants to vomit but swallows heavily against the urge. For someone of his experience, vomting at a crime scene is unbecoming. He clenches his teeth and wills the nausea back.

He pops an aspirin in spite of nausea and an aching throat. His aching head is worse.

Red lights splash against the leaves like bright blood, like the intense satisfaction of severing male flesh. His own flesh shrinks at the thought, as it has for more than a week. Jost derived such pleasure from the act of removing the men's genitals.

Will's own flash of pleasure and control and _power_ upon killing Hobbs mixes with Jost's and Will stops abruptly and gulps in air.

Beside him, Hannibal tenses slightly. Will feels Hannibal's gaze on him.

"It is a terrible thing to do to a man," Hannibal says. His uncanny ability to think along with Will no longer seems odd – nor does the hand that rests gently on Will's shoulder, supportive but not intrusive.

Will's head jerks in a nod. He blinks away the images and, seeing the car nearby, forces his feet to move. He'll feel better once he's in his room with a locked door between him and the eyes of the world.

Once he's in the car, Will buckles his seat belt and lets his eyes fall shut. He longs for sleep. His body aches in the absence of adrenaline. The cool air has seeped into his bones. He pulls his jacket more tightly around himself.

The companionable silence Will so appreciates when he's with Hannibal settles in. He relaxes, feeling the troubling images in his mind dissolve.

The next thing he knows, Hannibal's hand is on his shoulder again. Will blinks, his head foggy with sleep. Surprise and disbelief jolt his sleep-dulled body at the sight of his house in the pale dawn light.

He turns to look at Hannibal, who looks not the least bit tired. A smile plays in Hannibal's eyes. A love for this man he cannot quantify rushes through Will.

"You didn't have to drive all this way," Will croaks, wincing at the sandpaper in his throat. Perhaps he isn't well after all. "Thank you."

The smile reaches the corners of Hannibal's mouth. "Not at all, my dear Will."

As Hannibal retrieves Will's bag from the trunk, he explains. "You were still asleep when we reached the hotel. Given the difficulty you have sleeping, I thought it best to continue home rather than wake you."

_But it's seven hours,_ Will thinks. He should make something of it, but his tired mind can't process anything. Instead, he merely smiles as he takes the proffered bag. "I appreciate it, Hannibal."

The hand on his shoulder again. Another smile from Hannibal.

"I shall see you this evening for dinner?" Hannibal asks, referring to their new custom of dining together the day after a case. Will thinks of it as a kind of debriefing. "Or is that too soon?"

"No," Will shakes his head. "Seven o'clock," he confirms, hiding a wince at the pain in his throat. He offers a parting smile.

Will lets himself in, hearing the happy yelps of his dogs over the sound of Hannibal driving away.

* * *

When Will fails to appear at the appointed time, Hannibal packs the still-steaming flesh and vegetables in containers and drives through the wealthy D.C. suburbs to Wolf Trap. Such an affront from anyone else would garner meticulous rage, but not from Will. Will is stubborn yet loyal, fragile yet strong. Courteous, in his own way. If nothing else, he would have called.

Hannibal leaves the meal in the car, mindful of the pack of dogs Will keeps. The lights are on and Will's car is in the driveway, but only dogs answer his knock.

Worry glimmers at the edge of Hannibal's mind. He had observed the burn of fever in Will's too-bright eyes morning. Despite his brilliance, Will takes poor care of himself. And in spite of Hannibal's nature, he cares for Will. Will is his equal. One day, he will be Hannibal's undoing.

Until then, Hannibal will savor his company. His mouth shapes itself in a grin as titillation takes the place of worry.

Will is the first man Hannibal has desired in many years, but even when Will is rattled, he notices everything. Hannibal has not been able to get close to him. In time, he shall have Will Graham, but not yet.

Now, though, Hannibal is sure that Will is too ill to remember the many touches Hannibal intends to bestow. And if he does remember, Hannibal can easily persuade him that it's doctorly as well as friendly concern and nothing else.

He's already fed off of Will's starvation for a friendly relationship. Yet Hannibal does not pity him. Will is his equal in too many ways.

After several attempts to reach Will – surely the racket the dogs are making would have roused him – Hannibal picks the lock and brushes past the animals to the bed.

He stops to take in the scene before him. The room reeks of sweat, fever, and illness. The smell is organic but not entirely unpleasant, mixed as it is with Will's unique scent.

Sheets lie in a tangled heap at his feet. Towels hang off the bed at odd angles as though they'd been thrown weakly. One covers Will's stomach and thighs, leaving everything else – a veritable feast of flesh – exposed. Hannibal refrains from licking his lips.

The man himself is asleep but tense, his chest and cheeks flushed. His head jerks and he mumbles unintelligibly, then stills.

He can touch Will without his knowledge. Arousal tugs in Hannibal's stomach and groin.

Two of the dogs pad past him, look from him to Will and back, and whine. Hannibal ignores them, stepping forward instead so he can brush Will's matted hair from his sweat-damp forehead. Will flinches at the touch and mutters, his eyes rolling wildly under their lids.

Yes. Hannibal had pictured a scenario similar to this one as the best possible option. What he did not expect is the odd pull of compassion Will's complete vulnerability elicits. It mixes with the respect he has for Will and the physical attraction he can't deny, and he feels what it's like to be overcome by…love?

Yes, the feeling of love. He turns it over in his mind as though it's an object from an archeological dig that challenges the narrative of history.

He sets the feeling aside for later study. Tonight, he will satisfy his baser desires.

The dogs follow him, their nails clicking on the floor, as he returns to his car for the bag of basic medical supplies and instruments he brought. The smell of dog assaults his refined olfactories. Hannibal understands the comfort they provide Will, but his lip curls nonetheless at the totality of their presence in the house. He shuts them out of the living room.

A temperature reading reveals that Will ought to be in the hospital. No. Will would not like the empty touches of faceless staff, and Hannibal cannot abide that.

He rests his hands where the towel meets Will's flesh. His sensitive fingertips chart the undulations of Will's ribs as he skims upward. Will shivers at his touch; Hannibal realizes his hands must feel cold on Will's burning skin.

He's thrilled by the reaction. He wants to make Will shiver again.

Hannibal savors the trail of gooseflesh his hands leave as they push up the slick plane of Will's chest. His pectorals are more developed than Hannibal had imagined. He pauses to run his fingers along the contour of the muscles, stopping to tease Will's nipples.

Will gasps but does not wake, and Hannibal feels blood rush to his penis as it twitches in his trousers.

He lingers, savoring the exquisite prick of desire.

After a moment, his hands reach their goal: the lymph nodes in Will's neck. Swollen. Will whimpers. Painful, too. His mongoose is quite ill indeed.

The way forward is clear. He must lower Will's temperature enough to wake him so Hannibal can rule out the more troublesome possibilities like meningitis. Will needs acetaminophen, too, and as much water as he can handle.

Hannibal reluctantly removes his hands.

Will shivers again, then gasps and begins to thrash and cry out hoarsely. Immediately, Hannibal strokes Will's hair, leaning forward.

"Hush, sweet Will," Hannibal says into his ear. "I've got you."

Will quiets quickly, much like a child would. Sheer vulnerability. Satisfaction fills Hannibal like a fine reduction of heart steaming on a plate.

"You have a high fever," Hannibal continues. "I shall place wet towels on your head, neck, and feet. You will feel more comfortable."

His patient stills. Hannibal lingers a few moments longer before he opens the door. All six dogs greet him. He bares his teeth and growls.

A quick investigation reveals a back porch littered with dog dishes. Hannibal props the screen door open so the dogs can go in and out of the porch, and fills their dishes with food and water.

Already selecting the means of seduction, he closes the door to the house behind him. He will not be interrupted by dogs.


	2. Chapter 2

Will knows he's dreaming. He sometimes does, particularly when the odd details of an unsolved case stick like putty in his mind. But knowing that he's dreaming never minimizes the terror.

He's dreaming that he's Hobbs again. Not just slashing Abigail's throat – though that's the worst of it – but murdering, butchering, and eating each of the girls. His imagination conjures tastes for their hearts, kidneys, and livers. Blood he doesn't have to imagine. He licks drops from his lips and gnaws like an animal on pancreas.

The part of him that's Hobbs revels in the tastes. The part of him that knows it's a dream is disgusted. Even as he eats, he wants to vomit.

Now the dream shifts to his own murder of Hobbs. The primal thrill of shooting to kill. Elation and disgust: killing Hobbs only to become him and slit Abigail's throat. Her blood splatters on his lips and he licks them again. She tastes exquisite.

He drops her and the dream shifts again. He's stalking one of the other girls now, thrilled by the impending murder. Will her creamy flesh taste like cream?

He's Hobbs again, grabbing Abigail and biting into her neck with the blade. This action recurs most often. Each time, he screams inwardly.

Suddenly, she looks up at him and speaks. "Will."

He's more horrified than he usually is in his dreams. He drops her and backs into Hobbs' body.

"No, you're not –"

"Will," she repeats, her sharp eyes meeting his.

"No, you can't be –"

His heart is going to beat itself out of his chest. Blood spurts from Abigail's nicked jugular as she rises with the knife. He can taste her blood again and he's screaming, crawfishing into Hobbs without a second thought.

Hobbs grabs him and holds him in place as Abigail yanks at his pants and spouts a venomous racial slur and reaches for his –

"Will!"

His eyes snap open and Hannibal's face swims into focus. Terror races through Will, adrenaline scorching his veins. His head and throat throb mercilessly, and he feels tears running down his face. More sweat than usual, too, like he's taken a bath in his own juices. He clenches his teeth against the bile that rises when he thinks of juices. Blood and organs. He swallows painfully.

"There you are," Hannibal soothes. Will sees concern in his eyes. "You're all right. You were having a nightmare."

For a moment, all Will can do is stare at Hannibal, his heart racing, his body heavy with heat and pain and terror. He's in his house. In his bed. Yet another nightmare clings to him.

Hannibal is in his house, too. Why is Hannibal in house?

Hannibal's eyes bore into him, turning quizzical as though he's wondering if Will is really awake. Hannibal wants a response.

Will nods – and immediately wishes he hadn't as pain crashes through his head. Where are his aspirin? Before he can move, he feels Hannibal's hand in his hair. The soft but firm strokes ease his fear.

As his breathing slows, he realizes a wet towel is wrapped around his neck. His feet feel cool and wet, too.

"What's going on?" he croaks, squeezing his eyes shut at the pain of speaking.

He vaguely remembers waking up around noon, bathed in sweat as usual, but hurting and dull in body and mind. He got up for towels and a drink of water, realized that he had some kind of nasty virus or infection, and took his phone to bed with him, planning to call a doctor.

He wants to ask if he called Hannibal – he doesn't remember – but it hurts too much to talk.

"You'll ill, I'm afraid," Hannibal says.

Will nods fractionally, trying to convey that he knows.

"High fever. I placed towels around your head, neck, and feet to bring it down. You need to take these."

Two white tablets stand out against the bronze of Hannibal's palm. Will holds out his hand for the pills and Hannibal helps him sit up. He grimaces at the thought of swallowing but forces himself to take the medicine. A rough groan escapes him and he winces.

"Good," Hannibal coos. "You will feel better soon."

Will slumps down on the damp towels he'd put on the bed earlier and allows Hannibal to replace the wet towel around his neck. It does feel good. Cool.

He wants to thank Hannibal or ask him questions or something – never mind that it hurts to talk – because above all he does not want to fall asleep again. Dreams lurk just under the surface of his consciousness, still too real.

"You dreamt of Hobbs again." It has the slight rise of a question, but it's a statement.

Will nods carefully, wondering if he'd been screaming here as he was in the dream. He doesn't ask. Doesn't want to know.

Lids droop over eyes that feel like someone has peeled off their protective layer, leaving them raw and weeping.

_Nails through his wrists, the prick of thorns crowning his head, Hobbs holding him, a knife slashing toward his – _

Hannibal's hand on his cheek brings him back.

"Forgive me, Will. I do not wish to keep you from sleep. But you have said the dreams stay close just after you wake, and you were quite distressed only moments ago. I would not want you to fall back into them."

Will takes a shuddering breath and reaches up to squeeze Hannibal's hand: _Yes, thank you._

"If you feel able, I have prepared a warm bath for you. Another way to lower your temperature."

Will tries to concentrate on Hannibal's face so he can read the intention and emotion there. He sees care, concern, and something more, but he can't make out what.

He exhales sleepily and gives Hannibal's hand a weak squeeze. Anything to stay awake.

Hannibal smiles. "I will return in a moment."

Will watches him leave, noticing for the first time that he is without his jacket and vest, and has rolled up the sleeves of his expensive shirt.

Strong, svelte Hannibal Lecter has rolled up his sleeves to help scruffy, possibly insane Will Graham into a warm bath. Something like a caged bird flutters in Will's chest. He feels lightheaded in a way that has nothing to do with illness.

Normally, Will can block out his surroundings without trying – a combination of natural introversion and practiced concentration. Now, though, he's hyper aware of his body. His sweaty body. Dried sweat and fear saturate the air. He hasn't bathed in two – no, three – days, first caught up in the case, then too ill to bother.

And now handsome Hannibal Lecter is going to give him a bath.

A bath? Will hasn't had a bath in years. Not since he needed to soak his stab wound to keep infection at bay.

His stomach sinks. The scar. Two inches on the back of his shoulder. He has not thought about it much lately, but now he can feel the stinging pressure of the blade driving into him again. Panic and shock rise, threatening to trap him inside the memory.

He takes a deep breath and pushes the sensations and aside.

Another thought brushes against his mind: Hannibal will see.

Will possesses enough of his faculties to be embarrassed about his scar and by the general notion of Hannibal seeing him more unclothed than he is now, but too few to know what to do about it.

But, he realizes, neither is he all that bothered by the embarrassment, even though it's Hannibal who will be looking. Hannibal, about whom he's had intense sexual fantasies.

It's not like him. He chalks it up to the fever. He can't blame the fever for the arousal he feels, though. It's been there for weeks now. And fever or not, he has _no_ idea what to do about it.

He's just grateful his body isn't reacting much to what he feels. Hannibal seeing his scar is one thing; an erection would be too much.

He's nearly panting at the reel flickering in his head. Hannibal looking. Hannibal liking what he sees. Hannibal's hands on his body, strong and knowledgeable and deliberate.

He slows his breathing and suddenly realizes, to his horror, that he's swooning like a preteen girl. _Swooning. _

But it's Hannibal. How can one not swoon?

As if summoned, Hannibal appears in the doorway again.

"Still awake," he says approvingly.

Will nods and makes himself think of Jack. He must calm down. Jack barking orders in his face. Will makes himself breathe. Calm. Yes.

He pushes himself up and the room spins. He can hear himself gasping. The world rushes in like he's having a panic attack. A few more seconds and he'll pass out. God, not this.

Then Hannibal's arm is under him. Strong. So strong. Hannibal is sitting next to him.

"Careful. You've not eaten in two days."

Will breathes in Hannibal's sophisticated, exotic scent and feels the dizziness dissipate. He really should be embarrassed by the man of his fantasies seeing him so weak, but all he can do is lie against Hannibal and enjoy his proximity.

"I worry that movement will try you too much."

Will hears his tone: no bath. He shakes his head. No. He cannot lie down. He'll fall asleep and dream. He'd rather weather the strange non-awkwardness of a moment like this than return to his nightmares.

To illustrate his point, Will tries to sit up again, straining with the effort. Hannibal's arm around his shoulder supports him until they're sitting so very close to each other. God, he smells good. Will's gaze slides over to Hannibal.

"I'm okay," he whispers.

He isn't, but he trusts Hannibal to keep him from falling. Hannibal concedes.

Slowly, carefully, Hannibal helps Will stand. Will feels like a staggering drunk leaning into a sober person as they cross the bedroom and enter the bathroom.

When he sees the bath, Will suddenly realizes that he's wearing nothing but his grey boxers. He balks. In his overheated state, he hadn't connected a bath with being naked. As much as he wants to be naked with Hannibal, he doesn't want Hannibal to see him naked now.

Hannibal lowers him onto the lid of the toilet and crouches so they're nearly eye-to-eye.

"You worry about removing your shorts," Hannibal says matter-of-factly. Always so perceptive. Something that Will can't make out gleams in Hannibal's eye. "There is no need. You see how I have arranged the curtain?"

Will does see. It's more than half-closed. Anyone entering the room would not be able to see below his stomach.

Gratitude tinged with disappointment washes over him. Hannibal thinks of everything.

"I will help you in. Once I am certain you are safe, I will check on you in ten minutes. I wish to change your sheets."

The last sentence sounds like a request.

"I don't have extra sheets," Will whispers, perplexed.

Hannibal colors – flushes? Will isn't certain.

"I have taken the liberty of ordering a set. I hope you do not mind."

Will shakes his head. He does not mind. But for a moment, he's confounded. Then he remembers that one can get anything delivered at any time of day or night this close to the ultra-wealthy suburbs of Tyson's Corner and McLean.

"The doctor should arrive in thirty minutes. Ample time for you to enjoy the effects of the bath, dress, and return to bed."

Hannibal _does_ think of everything. Except… "But _you're_ a doctor."

A mix of pity and amusement crosses Hannibal's features. "Do not worry, Will."

And so he doesn't. He hasn't got the brain power or energy for it. And as embarrassing as the situation is, it's also nice to have Hannibal take such good care of him. Perhaps Hannibal sees something in him.

The thought flutters from his grasp as Hannibal helps him move to the half-full tub. He sighs contentedly. At Hannibal's urging, Will scoots down until his stomach is covered. There's enough water to buoy his body and it's just the right temperature to feel delicious against his hot skin.

"Better?"

Will smiles. "Much."

Lecter places a washcloth in Will's hand.

"I will return soon."

Will closes his aching eyes and does his best to focus his mind. Hannibal has bought things for him. He's called a doctor to help. Because… because Hannibal lacks something another doctor has. Lab access. A prescription pad. Something.

And because Hannibal sees something in him that makes this enterprise worth his time. Will's chest constricts and his stomach bottoms out at the thought. He should be thrilled. Instead, he feels the creep of panic.

Maybe it's because right now Hannibal is changing Will's filthy sheets. A sneer pulls at his face. That's how Hannibal reacts: disgusted by the unkempt state of the house, by the dogs.

Normally, Will doesn't care what anyone thinks of him. He grew out of that long ago. But Hannibal is so very, very different.

The dogs? Where are the dogs?

Hannibal won't have done anything to them. He doesn't like animals, but he won't hurt Will's dogs, if only because of they're Will's.

No, not the dogs now. He has inhabited Hannibal too fully for distractions.

He sees Hannibal standing before his bed, stripping off dirty sheets and replacing them with new, no doubt expensive linens. High thread count Egyptian cotton in a masculine shade. He's certain of this.

Hannibal, who so carefully selects his food, will have brought something to eat, too.

Dinner! He forgot about dinner! That's it. Hannibal is here because Will missed dinner.

He groans inwardly. Bad enough to be incapacitated in front of him. He's made this mistake, too.

The thought flies away almost as soon as it forms.

As easy as it is for him to envision Hannibal's actions right now, he struggles to grasp what Hannibal thinks of him. There's interest, sure. Curiosity. Kindness. Care. A refreshing lack of judgment. Almost certainly more. One doesn't drive a colleague seven hours to his house simply because of care.

This partnership of sorts they've fallen into after Hobbs comforts and challenges Will as much as it fills in the pieces of the puzzle he hasn't seen yet. Hannibal completes him in ways that go well beyond lust and into territory uncharted. Territory not even on the map.

Fear prickles down his spine. It's one thing to be intense at work, but Will is intense at home, too. Obsessive. For all his imagination, he can't picture a home life with Hannibal. Even if that's what this feels like right now.

Fevered musings. That's all these are. He's getting so far ahead of himself that he'll never catch up. He'll only let fear in, and when fear enters, he stumbles and becomes rude. He must not be rude to Hannibal.

But fear is entering right now. He can't tamp it down. His eyes close of their own volition and he falls into a vague dream of disembodied teeth tearing into teen girls' organs.

* * *

Hannibal does wrinkle his nose when he changes the sheets. Not at the scent of sweat, fever, and musk, but at the smell of dog. Filthy animals, dogs. They share Will's bed from time to time. Dog hair rises and catches in the air like dust motes when Hannibal strips the sheets.

He is not sure himself why he does this. Only that he wants more of Will Graham. Shy, awkward, intense Will Graham who is too embarrassed to remove his shorts before stepping into a bath. He has less sexual experience than most men his age. But he is attentive and astute: highly trainable.

Helping Will through this illness allows Hannibal not only to satiate his desire to touch Will but also to cultivate the trust that has grown between them. This trust is a living thing. It must be nurtured with care until it is strong enough to bear something more than friendship.

And then there's the scar on the back of Will's shoulder. He can still feel the knot of raised flesh he touched when he helped Will out of bed and into the bath.

A viper struck his mongoose.

To Hannibal's practiced eye, the scar tells of a stab wound that compromised the teres major and minor muscles and part of the deltoid. Tough, working muscles. The shoulder is not a choice cut.

He can taste the pain and fear Will felt. The blood. Salty and coppery with a bitter finish when fresh. His mouth waters. He wants to bite into that scar and taste Will's past.

Tumescence strains against his tailored trousers. He will take himself in hand soon and fantasize about biting and licking that scar as he thrusts into Will from behind. Will can take it rough, Hannibal is certain. Will may like it rough.

Hannibal takes a deep, calming breath, and turns his attention to the task of dressing the bed in navy. Maroon had been his first choice, but it would not do for Will to wake up in a sea of red.

Will dreams about blood often.

Engorgement again. He must stop these thoughts. With his self-control, such a thing is easily done.

When he returns to the bathroom, Will's head is awkwardly slumped to the side. Sleeping. Hannibal peeks but can see little more than an outline swathed in cheap grey cotton.

He crouches and runs a hand through Will's hair. Still matted. He has not washed himself. Excellent.

Will breathes in deeply and opens his eyes a fraction, already smiling like a lover waking up after a luxurious afternoon romp.

"It is dangerous to fall asleep in the bath," Hannibal states.

"Didn't mean to," Will replies, his voice raspy and husky at the same time. He winces and swallows carefully.

"The doctor will arrive soon," Hannibal says as Will lifts a wet, wrinkled hand and rubs his face.

Hannibal touches his hair again. "You have not washed."

Will looks from him to the washcloth and remembrance ghosts across his features.

"Fell asleep," he whispers. He lifts the wet cloth with an uncoordinated arm and drops it on his chest. He closes his eyes; the effort is too much for him.

His eyes snap open when Hannibal takes the cloth and begins gently washing his chest.

Will's gaze bores into him. "You don't have to do this," he whispers.

Hannibal merely smiles. "You'll feel better when you're clean," he replies, admiring Will's chest as he dips the cloth in the water and makes another pass.

"I feel better already," Will rasps. "The pills. This. Much better."

Underneath the thanks, Hannibal hears Will's reservations. He must address them.

He puts a hand on Will's ribs and follows them backwards to the sheath of his spine. Will puts a wet hand on Hannibal's shoulder and together, they ease Will up to a sitting position. Hannibal begins washing his back, eyes fixed on the scar.

"This is a strange situation," he observes casually. It's what Will wants to hear.

Will's snort of agreement contracts so many lithe, gorgeous muscles. Hannibal forces the hand with the cloth not to stop when he feels the movement.

"But it's not like you to miss an appointment. You looked so ill this morning. I had to come check."

Will nods his acceptance. Acceptance: that's what Hannibal wants. He dips the cloth again and squeezes water onto Will's right shoulder. Rivulets cascade down the scar.

"I will turn on the shower so you can wash your hair?" He must secure permission to secure trust.

Will nods again and soon his curls are plastered to his head. This time Hannibal does not ask; he does not have to. He moves the shower head, picks up the shampoo, and runs his fingers along the plates of Will's skull.

Placing his thumbs on the sphenoidal fontanelle, he massages the frontal and sagittal sutures that separate the frontal and parietal bones. Beneath his sensitive fingers lives all that is Will Graham.

Hannibal sweeps his thumbs down to the occipital bone and lovingly caresses the top of Will's neck. He increases the pressure and Will moans hoarsely.

Satisfaction fills Hannibal. He wants Will exactly like this in this moment.

He extends the massage to Will's neck and shoulders, closing his eyes as his right thumb strokes the scar.

Will has gone nearly limp in response to Hannibal's ministrations. As he moves back to Will's hair, Hannibal glances again around Will's torso to his groin. To his delight, a ridge has formed beneath the cotton. His own penis responds with a jerk and his breath hitches in his chest. Will cannot hear it over the sound of the shower.

Hannibal could do this for hours, slowly disassembling this troubled genius.

But not today.

Reluctantly, he moves the shower head again so he can wash the shampoo from Will's hair. He indulges in another two minutes of scalp massage before turning the spray off and reaching between Will's feet to unplug the drain.

With an economy of motion, he picks up the towel he has placed nearby and gently dries Will's wet hair. He takes his time before moving on to Will's shoulders and back, and reaching forward for his chest.

By the time the water has drained from the tub, Will is dry from the waist up. Hannibal places a fresh towel in Will's lap and looks into his face.

Bliss.

_Yes. _

He watches Will, absorbing every detail of his slack face. Lost in pleasure.

Eventually, Will takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. Ecstasy clouds his gaze. Hannibal sees gratitude and lust, too. For a man who dislikes eye contact, there is nothing shy about Will Graham right now.

After a moment, Will comes back to himself. Pleasure fades, replaced by lazy contentment. Hannibal doesn't notice the embarrassment he saw earlier. Will holds his gaze.

Hannibal allows the moment to last as long as possible before he speaks.

"I brought fresh clothes." His eyes shift to a neatly folded shirt and shorts on the toilet lid. "Would you like help?"

Fear. Panic. They're subtle, contained by lassitude, but Hannibal has his answer. He smiles cordially.

"I will wait outside. Perhaps you should change where you are and allow me to help you stand?"

Will's eyes flash agreement as he unfolds the fresh towel.

Just outside the door, Hannibal listens to the movement of wet fabric as Will slides the shorts off. He hears the sweep of the towel as Will dries his legs. His thighs. His groin and butt. Then the rustle of cotton as Will slips on the shirt and the squeak of dry flesh in the tub as he works into the shorts.

It's a pity. But Hannibal expected this. He's playing a long game.

He gives Will an additional moment so he won't think Hannibal has been listening. Will is more awake when Hannibal re-enters the room, but his eyes are still glazed with happiness.

Wordlessly, he helps Will return to bed, encouraging him to sit up against the pillows Hannibal has arranged.

A knock at the door forestalls what would surely be an awkward conversation.

"That will be our doctor," Hannibal says.

The disappointment in Will's eyes goes right to Hannibal's groin. Will wanted this to last longer. Exactly as Hannibal had planned.

_Yes. _


	3. Chapter 3

Will's head begins to clear after Hannibal leaves to greet the doctor. Hannibal's methods have been effective: he's less feverish and more aware now. And his body is more relaxed than it's been in a long time.

However, the low hum of unsatisfied desire makes him wish he had a few minutes alone so he could take care of himself. He'd gotten half-hard when Hannibal was massaging him – he's getting there again just thinking of it. Hannibal's hands on his skin. The fact that Hannibal seemed to be enjoying it, too. He took his time. Even through the haze of pleasure, Will could tell Hannibal relished the feel of skin on skin.

His body recalls so much. He wouldn't need more than a minute.

But there's the problem of the mess. And Hannibal and the doctor will return at any moment.

Embarrassment, combined with thoughts of Jack, lower his heart rate and breathing. Blood leaves his cock but settles close by, ready to return at a moment's notice.

Often anxious about seeming vulnerable in front of others, Will dreads interacting with this doctor. However, the elegant navy sheets Hannibal ordered make him feel like a king. The grey and white duvet, much nicer than anything Will has ever owned, completes the masculine palette.

In these bedclothes, he has control.

Being clean and clothed helps, too. He feels presentable. Better than that. Like a king holding court.

Hannibal has done this for him.

Blood moves south and Will takes a deep breath to steady himself. It's all he can do not to be swept away again.

He focuses his mind on the sheets and the sense of control he feels. It comes from the color, yes, but more from his not having awoken terrified in them yet. They won't look so friendly soon. They'll show the dog hair, too.

The dogs. Where are the dogs?

He realizes he hasn't heard them since he woke up. Hannibal must have put them outside. The early winter has been so mild that the dogs would be fine out there all night. He'd prefer them inside, though.

The thought of them being cold chills him. A shiver works its way up his spine. He feels much better than he did when he woke up, but he's still miserable.

Getting cold now. Let the dogs not be cold. Not be huddled next to each other to keep warm. Not that.

He reaches for the duvet and pulls it up to his chest in awkward bunches, shivering again.

When Hannibal returns with the doctor, he's almost grateful for the distraction from his disjointed thoughts.

He wants to blurt out a question about the dogs – cold, chilled – but Hannibal would not appreciate it, so he doesn't do it. It's odd, having to consider another person so thoroughly when making decisions.

The doctor is an unremarkable woman in her fifties who enjoys the small fortune she earns paying house calls at night to the wealthy denizens of the D.C. suburbs. Mundane. Will pays little attention to her.

He answers her questions in succinct whispers, uncomfortable talking about his body. She places cold hands on his neck to check his lymph nodes, then sticks instruments in his ears and throat. She's in his space; he forces himself not to shrink into the pillows. A cold stethoscope chills his chest and back as she checks his breathing. An impossibly long, thin swab pokes his throat and he gags and coughs, his eyes watering with the pain in his throat.

He can take no more and is ready to say as much when she pulls back and says she's finished.

Good. He wouldn't react well to any more intrusions.

The only thing that gets him through the examination is Hannibal's critical appraisal of her work and the kind, soft eyes he has for Will. Hannibal doesn't like her touching him, either.

Possessive?

Of course. Hannibal is a possessive man.

Will longs for Hannibal's hands to touch him again. He wouldn't mind being possessed by him. More than that. Despite his strong independent streak, he would welcome it.

A flush creeps up his chest and into his cheeks. He's grateful for the thick comforter hiding the jerks of his cock. He really needs a few minutes alone.

Will forces himself to pay attention to the doctor. Strep throat, she thinks. It's been going around the sprawl of government offices outside the Beltway. Bacterial culture to confirm. Is he allergic to penicillin?

He shakes his head, and she describes what she's prescribing. Will half-listens. He can't take his eyes off of Hannibal.

She mistakes Will's examination of Hannibal for deference to the man and begins talking to him instead of Will. Just as well.

When she finishes, Hannibal addresses Will.

"Could I get you to drink some water, Will?" he asks politely. "You have had so little today."

Will doesn't need to hear the words. He's been thirsty since he woke up. His tongue threatens to stick to the roof of his mouth. Water would be heavenly, but the mere thought of swallowing makes his sore throat hurt worse.

"Maybe some," Will whispers.

"Your throat hurts too much?" Hannibal asks.

Nodding his head, he feels like a sick child talking to a benign adult. It's infantilizing and he should be offended, but trusting someone this much comforts him deeply.

He listens as Hannibal asks about arranging an IV.

_Limp hands jut out amidst the mushrooms, a needle embedded in a vein to deliver dextrose so that the mushrooms might thrive. The woman buried in the pharmacist's car. The stink of her diabetic body beneath the clean smell of dirt. Hands grab him from behind. They belong to Garrett Jacob Hobbs, riddled with bullet holes but still alive. Abigail darts toward him. Her hand is slick with her own blood, her eyes filled with hatred. The knife she holds is ready to sever his genitals from his body. She reaches for him – _

And he returns to reality again. It's odd that his mind doesn't allow her to castrate him. He doesn't know why and, at the moment, doesn't care. He's shaking too badly. Shaking like he always does. Too much adrenaline, pumping through his veins – _don't think of veins – think of – _

He looks at Hannibal, expecting them both to be staring at him.

But they aren't. They're talking to each other. When he can hear again over the roar of his blood, Hannibal is talking about codeine. Saying that acetaminophen hasn't helped Will much since he took it and the antibiotic won't reduce his pain right away, but that Will needs to eat something so the antibiotic won't make him sick, yet Hannibal doubts he can get Will to eat without stronger pain medication.

The conversation runs together in his head.

Hannibal has held her attention, but when Hannibal looks at him, Will knows Hannibal witnessed his episode. Will sees no judgment in his face. Just a slight unhappiness for the things Will sees, the things he has to see to make intuitive leaps. Sympathy.

Warmth rushes over him. Adrenaline fades, replaced by a buoyant, happy spirit he's felt so rarely in his life.

Hannibal's care for him is much more than platonic; that much is clear now. Will has both suspected and hoped that Hannibal might feel something for him, but he hasn't entertained such ideas.

It's not so much that he lacks self-esteem; he could find someone if he tried. Maybe.

He's just not sure _this_ incredibly attractive, neatly appointed, suave and sophisticated man might want him for who he is. Despite the evidence to the contrary, it seems impossible.

Will hardly notices when the doctor leaves; his eyes follow Hannibal out of the room.

He's not sure he can do this. It's a terrible risk. And he so enjoys Hannibal's company. Why give that up when it's easier to pine secretly while he's around Hannibal and masturbate like a fourteen-year-old later?

No. He can't make the first move. He needs something overtly sexual from Hannibal. A kiss. A hand grabbing his ass.

He stops those thoughts. Not right now.

And even if something happened, Will fails miserably at relationships.

No. He can't do this.

When Hannibal returns, he immediately notices the change in Will's mood.

"Talk of the IV upset you," he observes.

That seems like the safer topic now. Will pursues it.

"Bad memories," he whispers.

Hannibal sits on the bed near Will's legs. It's a friendly distance – not too close but pleasant all the same.

"Not just of mushrooms?" Hannibal inquires.

Will grimaces. His scar. Of course.

"It was a bad time," Will says, his eyes fixed on the duvet.

"It still haunts you." It's not a question his time.

"Not as much lately." Will's eyes dart toward Hannibal but don't stay.

"Jack has given you more recent ghosts," Hannibal observes.

They both know it. Will wonders why Hannibal, who chooses words as carefully as he does meals, says it aloud.

Will offers a half-shrug and changes the subject.

"I like this a lot," he says, spreading a hand out on the duvet. "It's soft." He looks into Hannibal's eyes. "Thank you."

Hannibal smiles knowingly. He pats Will's leg just above the knee.

"It suits you," he says and stands. "I have to run an errand, but I will be back soon." He nods at the glass of water on the bedside table. "Try to have some."

Will glances at the water and nods slightly. He stares openly at Hannibal's ass as Hannibal leaves the room. Hannibal has touched him so much in the last half hour, but he has hardly laid a hand on Hannibal.

That's going to change, he resolves, and begins to imagine the contours of Hannibal's body.

* * *

Hannibal returns from a nearby pharmacy with Tylenol 3 and amoxicillin. A medical supply store will deliver the IV solution and paraphernalia in twenty minutes.

He imagines sliding the needle into the median cubital vein of Will's left arm. He will exert the exact amount of pressure needed to seat the needle and no more. An expert touch is required.

Later, when the bag is empty, he will withdraw the needle and set it aside to be tasted. He envisions dark, venous blood welling up from the puncture site, drop by drop, before he can staunch it. Delectable.

Will's eyes are closed but he is not asleep. Hannibal scents ejaculate in the air, a thick, distilled aroma indicative of days of celibacy. He grins wolfishly to himself. He is the sole cause of Will's relaxed posture and the smell of sex. One day he will taste that viscous fluid, too.

Hannibal rustles the paper bag as he removes the medicines. Will opens his eyes slowly; Hannibal sees in them the lingering shine of post-coital contentment. He meets Will's gaze with a smile, and says nothing until Will blinks and the shine fades.

Hannibal offers Will the water glass, still full, and a single tablet.

"Tylenol with codeine," he explains. "You'll feel much better soon. Then you can eat and take what you really need." He shakes the bottle of amoxicillin.

Will gazes unhappily at the pill before swallowing it with a gulp of water. He grimaces and hands the water back to Hannibal.

"How long until it works?" he whispers.

"About twenty minutes. Perhaps sooner. It will make you sleepy, and I'm sorry to say that your dreams might be more vivid, but it is necessary."

Will nods impassively. Hannibal sits next to him again and places a hand on his knee.

"The IV will arrive soon."

Will looks away uncomfortably.

"It is also necessary. May I see your hand?"

Curiosity brims in Will's eyes as he offers his hand. Hannibal pinches the still-feverish skin and holds it for a few seconds, then releases it. He watches Will's fascination as his skin retains its tented shape.

"That's a sign of moderate to severe dehydration," Hannibal explains. "Closer to severe than moderate now. Dr. Magnusson wanted to hospitalize you."

At Will's confused expression, Hannibal continues. "You weren't with us for that part of the discussion."

Understanding dawns in Will's eyes; his jaw twitches with discomfort.

"I regret that it bothers you," Hannibal says sympathetically, his hand returning to Will's knee, "but as you can see, you need it."

Will nods. Hannibal senses another quiet moment growing between them, but a knock at the door cuts it short.

When Hannibal returns, Will's expression is more worried than he'd expected. He had thought Will's anxiety was tied to the recent case. Interesting.

Hannibal isn't at all sorry that something deeper is bothering Will.

Will tenses visibly as Hannibal unpacks the supplies. Hannibal stops and looks at him. Will's entire body has gone rigid.

"Very bad memories," Will whispers, his eyes fixed on the empty space in front of him.

Panic rises in his face. He begins to hyperventilate and shake. His eyes are open, but he's seeing something else.

Hannibal puts a knee on the bed and takes Will's hand immediately.

"Breathe, Will," he coaxes, "breathe. It's okay. I'm here."

Will can't hear him. He's too far gone, his chest heaving and body trembling.

Carefully, experimentally, Hannibal places an arm around Will's shoulder. This much tactile sensation when Will is not just in a dark place but having a panic attack won't be tolerated unless Will trusts him on an unconscious level.

Will shies away like a frightened horse. The move would be more violent if he weren't weakened by illness.

Hannibal removes his arm but stays close, still holding Will's hand and speaking calmly to him. He rubs light circles on Will's back, giving him enough space to feel comfortable.

"It's okay," he soothes. "You're okay."

Will's body shudders convulsively beneath Hannibal's hand. He's breathing so intensely that he'll pass out in a few minutes if he doesn't calm down. Hannibal keeps talking in soft, quiet tones, making his voice a tranquilizer.

Hannibal thinks as he tries to calm Will. Will's trauma goes so much deeper than he'd surmised. His work will have to be more thorough in light of this new development. He imagines Will as a block of marble hewn into the rough shape of a man. With hammer and chisel, rasp and grinder, he shall shape Will into a masterpiece.

Abruptly, the shaking intensifies and then stops, as if brought to a crescendo before sounding a final note.

Will takes shuddering breaths; Hannibal can feel him trying to calm himself. He leans back against the pillows; he has returned from the dark place.

"Better now," Hannibal says and strokes Will's hair.

The tension leaves Will's muscles and he slumps toward Hannibal.

So he _has _made progress, Hannibal muses, as Will lets Hannibal extend his arm again and stroke Will's shoulder.

Hannibal inhales the scent of pure fear emanating from Will. Water has not diluted it very much: only a hint of sweat covers Will's body. He badly needs the fluids waiting at the foot of the bed.

"G-god, I h-h-hate t-this," Will says. He snorts with frustration and rubs a hand over his face. "And now I'm st-tuttering."

Hannibal draws him closer until he's holding Will.

"Did you stutter as a child?" Hannibal asks.

"N-no," Will answers. "Only when this h-happens."

Hannibal senses rather than sees the tears rolling down Will's face.

"Then you do not stutter," Hannibal replies.

Will's breathing catches on a laugh, amused that Hannibal points out what he already knows about speech disorders.

"There, that's better," Hannibal says jovially.

He hears Will take a deep, cleansing breath of agreement.

"I am sorry, my dear Will," Hannibal apologizes. "If I had known…"

"I didn't know it was going to happen either," Will answers.

For the first time, he's not whispering or speaking painfully. Good timing.

"Ah, it just kicked in," Will confirms, slumping further down on the bed and into Hannibal.

"Okay, let's lie down completely," Hannibal says as he reluctantly moves out from under Will.

Will scoots down the bed until he's lying on his side in a crooked diagonal, facing Hannibal. Hannibal thinks he can't be comfortable, but Will has deliberately extended his left arm and draped his right arm over his eyes.

"It's easier if I can't see it," Will explains.

He clenches and unclenches his fist, trying to help raise the veins. Admirable.

"You've been hurt in this way before," Hannibal offers, studying Will's veins as he arranges supplies.

"Mmm," Will hums. "Medical care in the deep south is not so good."

"I'm not surprised," Hannibal replies, donning gloves. "I am going to begin. Do you want to hear what I will do?"

"Mmn, no," Will groans. "Just do it."

"Okay. But let me say that I promise you will not feel it."

"Of course you're good at this," Will says, his speech slightly slurred now. "You're good at everything."

"You make me blush," Hannibal jokes.

Expertly, he ties a tourniquet to Will's arm, probes the vein, and with great satisfaction, plunges the needle home. He wishes he could linger, but Will needs the reassurance of a quick procedure. He tapes the needle in place and begins to connect tubes.

"You're right," Will breathes. "I didn't feel it."

The corners of Hannibal's mouth turn up in a smile. This unexpected turn affords an excellent opportunity to secure more of Will's trust.

Will shivers as the fluid runs into his arm. Hannibal re-arranges the sheets and comforter around his body, then returns to Will's left side to sit next to him again.

"I know you are sleepy," he says quietly, "but you must eat so you can take the medicine."

Will hums in ascent, his arm still draped over his eyes.

"I brought a meal, but I can prepare some broth if you prefer."

Will moves his arm so he can look at Hannibal. A combination of post-panic attack exhaustion, fever, and the opiate clouds his eyes with a thick haze.

"You cooked tonight, didn't you."

Hannibal inclines his head in a yes.

"I want what you made," Will slurs as his eyes fall shut.

Pleased with this answer, Hannibal goes to Will's disused kitchen and warms the meat.

When he returns with two immaculately plated dinners of dove breast in a sauce of Médoc with a salad of endive and radicchio with asiago and walnuts, he expects Will to be asleep.

Instead, Will speaks from his odd position on the bed. "That smells amazing."

Hannibal watches him snarl at the IV as he pushes himself up so he can sit against the wall.

Will accepts the plate Hannibal hands him it with hungry eyes.

"I feel like I'm insulting your cooking, eating like this," he says of the plate in his lap.

"You worry too much, Will," Hannibal replies, slicing into the little birds. "Just enjoy."

Will's lips twitch in a smile. "I don't think I've had this before," he says, observing Hannibal's method of cutting the meat.

"It's dove," Hannibal replies.

"The symbol of peace or the game bird?"

Hannibal watches him take his first bite. Will closes his eyes as the rich meat married expertly with the full-bodied red bursts in his mouth. He moans appreciatively.

"I'm glad you like it," Hannibal says. "One of my patients is an avid dove hunter. He knows I appreciate fine meats and brings me these little gifts."

"Like a cat," Will adds mischievously.

"Mmm, cats do not leave shot pellets in their gifts, I think. Watch out for them."

Will grins and they finish their meal in affable silence.

Only for Will, Hannibal muses, will he dine on a treat like this while sitting on a bed with his plate in his lap. Only Will's company negates the barbarism of such poor manners.

Hannibal takes Will's plate and sets it aside with his own. He hands Will the glass of water and a dose of antibiotic, encouraging him to drink. Hannibal takes up the glass of Médoc he brought for himself and settles back on the bed.

"I guess I should tell you about it," Will says, swirling the water in the glass as though it's wine. "Since you're my psychiatrist. Sort of."

Will's eyes are clearer than they've been since he woke but remain rimmed with the opiate.

"I am happy to listen," Hannibal answers.

Will sighs and shifts his gaze to the duvet.

"It happened when I was a cop in New Orleans. I was out with a clumsy rookie. We tracked a suspect into a warehouse. He was calling in back-up when – "

Will pauses. His jaw works back and forth. He glances up at Hannibal and back down again.

"I had a shot. I should have taken it, but I didn't. He got away."

Will sighs and rubs a hand across his forehead.

"We found him again when he rushed out of the shadows and stuck a hunting knife in my back. That clumsy kid was so damn clumsy he tripped and the suspect got away again. They caught him later, after he killed another person."

He looks up at Hannibal, his eyes fierce.

"I should have taken the shot. But I was afraid I'd miss and kill him. I didn't want to kill him."

Will's jaw clenches and his Adam's apple bobs. The little ticks of nervousness and fear – and sometimes anger.

His mind has gone to Hobbs again. Hannibal knows Will has kept much of the story from him. He is not ready to talk about it yet.

"You did not miss when you shot Stammets," Hannibal points out.

"But I could have wounded Hobbs if – " Will glares at his shoulder as he rolls it.

"You did what had to be done."

Will nods but remains troubled, his eyes on the duvet again.

They sit together quietly until Will's eyelids droop and his head bows toward his chest.

Hannibal stands and collects the plates.

"You should sleep," he says.

Will blinks up at him, then slides down the bed so he can lie down properly.

Hannibal washes the dishes and pours himself another glass of wine.

He settles on the bed again to watch Will sleep. He savors the wine and waits until he can withdraw the needle and taste Will's blood as though it were a digestif.


	4. Chapter 4

It's the same dream again, the one he can't get rid of. Stalking the girls. Killing and eating them. Elation and disgust.

Every time, he feels the power – the absolute _control_ – of shooting Hobbs.

Ten times.

Not just because of his shoulder.

When it replays, he sees himself fail to drop Hobbs on the first shot, but the two that follow hit Hobbs in the chest.

The next seven?

Because it felt good. Better than any other feeling he's ever had.

And each time, there's Hobbs saying to him, "_See. See._"

This is how it feels to kill. The best feeling.

He's high on that feeling when the scene skips and he becomes Hobbs, holding Abigail tightly, telling her he's going to make it all go away, slashing her creamy white throat.

And each time, it feels _so good_.

The scene skips again, as it's been doing since the Charleston case, and Hobbs restrains him as he struggles while Abigail yanks down his pants.

She raises the knife. She's got him this time, holding his penis and testicles. He feels a scream come tearing up into his throat.

She moves to slash and –

A flash of fur and –

He's free.

He slumps against the cabinets, terrified but whole.

When he turns his head, he sees Abigail pinned to the refrigerator, dead, her torso riddled with puncture wounds.

The massive stag stands broadside in front of him and turns his majestic head toward Will. Deep, inscrutable eyes, brown blending to black, stare impassively at him.

The stag bows his enormous head and the scene dissolves into nothing.

As if emerging from a long tunnel into the golden glow of dawn, Will wakes.

A long, heavy, warm weight presses against his side.

For a few happy seconds, he thinks it's Hannibal - that Hannibal has stayed and it's his long, lean body pressed firmly against Will's.

The earthy smell of dog dashes his hopes: it's Winston.

Will runs a hand through Winston's shaggy fur and pats his canine companion. If his throat weren't so sore, he'd say something, but the drugs have worn off. His head aches and his fever is up again.

The stag. It's never done something so assertive before.

The last time Will dreamt of the stag, Winston was walking with him down Meadowlark Road. Winston may be with him now, but Will knows he isn't the stag.

The dream is too loaded with obvious symbolism. Hannibal as the stag saving him from castration - he doesn't know what to do with that idea. He's missing something, but he doesn't know what, and his head and throat hurt too much for him to think about it.

He's just glad he's still in bed and not standing on his roof or knee-deep in Lake Caroline or wandering the Dulles Toll Road.

Better still, he isn't even drenched in sweat – just damp with it. The sheets and pillow will dry quickly.

Will pats Winston again and pushes his heavy body up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Winston snuffs, stretches, and hops off of the bed, following Will to the bathroom.

Will notices the puncture wound in the crook of his elbow as he urinates. No band aid covers it. Hannibal must have taped a cotton ball in place and then removed it.

Odd.

Will shuffles back to his bedroom, his body stiff and sore from sleeping so much. As he stretches, a note on thick paper in an elegant hand catches his eye. He sits on the bed, Winston at his side, and reads.

_My dear Will:_

_I have left your medication on the table. Take either acetaminophen or Tylenol 3 as soon as possible. Once it takes effect, drink as much water as you can. You will find a few basic items in your kitchen; eat and take the amoxicillin. _

_Should you feel uncomfortably warm, I advise placing a cool towel around your neck. _

_I shall return in the morning with breakfast. I hope to find you much improved. _

_Yours,_

_H.L._

Will's hand stills on Winston's back.

_Yours. _

The word sticks in his mind. It's not a typical closing – not a _yours truly_ meant to signify the letter's authenticity. Rather, it reads like a message to him: _I am yours. _

And then there's everything Hannibal chose not to say.

Along with the scent of ink, a hint of Hannibal's fine fragrance drifts up from the paper. Will takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Memories from the night before, hazy with fever and drugs, flood his mind. His cock jerks and he swallows convulsively, wincing.

He cannot – _cannot _– do this.

He rubs his hands over his face. He has kept his attraction to Hannibal locked in the portion of his mind he visits only when he can no longer avoid indulging his sexual needs.

Like earlier tonight. His stomach is still sticky and his sensitive skin still tingles with the frenzied pace he'd used. He hadn't been able to go slowly. Even now, his scalp and muscles recall Hannibal's hands. His strong, gentle, practiced hands.

No. This is too much. He can never let any one in. Never.

Winston, George, Callie – the dogs are all he needs.

Will stands again, stretching, and follows Hannibal's instructions. Acetaminophen for pain and fever first. The pill and water burn down his throat.

While he waits for the pain to fade, he sits on the floor of his bedroom, his back securely against the wall, and pets each one of the dogs thoroughly, saying hello without speaking.

The dogs seem fine. Happy to see him, as they always are. They sense his happiness at their presence and get excited, whining and barking, wanting to jump on him and lick his face. He lets them pile on top of him and feels a weight lift.

Dog emotions are pure and simple, refreshing after the jumble of human emotion. When he lets himself exist in the moment with them, he can stop thinking.

Being with the dogs has kept him sane. He lets himself get lost in their happiness.

By the time the dogs have had their fill – and it's a long time before all six are satisfied – the sharp edge is gone from the pain and his head is clearer, less feverish.

It's not enough, though, for him to bear eating.

He signs heavily and looks from the dogs to the bottle of codeine-laced Tylenol. He's slept more in the last twenty-four hours than he does in the better part of a week. He needs to stay awake so he can think through what happened last night.

But he really, _really_ doesn't want to think about it. And he has to eat. Doctor's orders.

His mouth tugs at the thought. The prurient portion of his mind wants to run with it to fantasy land. How easy it would be to do.

He puts it out of his mind as he swallows the codeine. Until he gets rid of this fever, he won't be himself. Won't be able to resist the things Hannibal does to him just by existing. Won't be able to see the best way forward.

The dogs follow him to the kitchen. Bananas, soup, tea, honey, and, strangely, pretzels wait on the kitchen table. He'll have to ask about the pretzels when Hannibal arrives. It's past four a.m. now; he doesn't expect Hannibal before eight.

Will selects soup and sets about warming it up. The dogs stay close, sometimes getting in his way. Once, he nearly trips over Rufus, the little terrier mix.

While he waits for the soup to cool, he pours himself some whiskey. Alcohol with acetaminophen may be like throwing gasoline on a fire, but he can't bring himself to care about the state of his liver.

Once he's swallowed half of the soup – that has to be enough, he thinks – his head is pleasantly foggy with whisky and codeine.

But he still doesn't want to drink the glass of water he poured. Nausea squeezes his stomach. He hates antibiotics; they always do this to him. Worse, his throat still hurts in spite of the heady mix of drugs.

And yet earlier tonight he'd eaten with ease in spite of his sore throat. Hannibal lifted his spirits that much.

He groans. He's in so much trouble.

Winston, upset by the noise, works his way under Will's arm to lay his head on Will's lap.

Will pets him. "What should I do, Winston?" Will rasps.

The dog looks up at him uncertainly, his brow raised and eyes shifting back and forth. Keying off Will's uncertainty, Will knows.

Dogs always mirror his emotions. They always understand him.

And now a person does, too. No one has ever been so equal a partner, so capable a foil for Will.

He can't risk giving that up for a fling that won't last.

Winston sighs in Will's lap and Will looks down at him.

"Yeah," Will says. "That's how it feels to me, too."

He rubs Winston's head and the dog relaxes.

Will relaxes, too. He can feel himself falling asleep in the chair…

He jerks awake with a start. Myoclonic twitch. Scourge of insomniacs.

Winston's head is still on his lap. He pats Winston.

"Sorry, boy," he says as he pushes the chair from the table. He sways when he stands but stays on his feet.

The dogs follow him in a pack as he returns to the bedroom, slightly proud of himself for remembering to bring the water.

The world wobbles less dizzyingly when he sits on the bed. The dogs scatter to their beds – all except Winston, who looks from Will to the bed and back, asking permission.

"Yeah, come on," Will says. Winston jumps up to sit next to him.

Will shows him the glass of water. "I have to drink all of this before we can lie down."

Winston whines.

Will nods, rubbing Winston's head, and makes himself take the antibiotic and chug the water.

It hurts like hell and reminds him of college, graduate school, and the deep south – cheap beer, whiskey, and iced tea on a hot day. Those times seem carefree, though he knows they weren't.

Now, his head is all fucked up.

_All fucked up._ He snorts. No doubt about that.

No more whiskey with codeine, he decides. It's made him silly.

He turns off the light and nudges Winston over so he can lie down.

The room spins uncomfortably for a moment, then sleepiness overwhelms him and he drops into a deep, dreamless slumber.

* * *

When Will answers the door with a robe draped loosely over his shoulders, Hannibal knows that he has refortified his defenses. It's a shame, but not far from what he expected. Will sees himself adrift on a sea of a fear. One does not change such a man overnight.

Will gestures for Hannibal to unpack the food as he shoos the dogs out the back door. Hannibal hears a softness in his hoarse voice when speaks to the dogs. A lesser man would view the dogs as competition.

Instead, Hannibal arranges basic scrambled eggs, oatmeal, tea with ginger, and a lemon and honey mixture for Will. For himself, there is a more elaborate preparation of Lyonaisse salad with a poached quail egg and freshly-pressed coffee from the Valle del Cocora.

"Smells good," Will says, taking the seat the head of the table where Hannibal has placed his breakfast. Hannibal sits on Will's right. "I'm nauseous from the antibiotic and my throat hurts, but I'll try."

"Start with the lemon and honey," Hannibal instructs. "They will reduce the inflammation in your throat. Then try the tea. It contains ginger, which will calm your stomach."

While Will slowly drinks the two beverages, Hannibal relishes the bacon in his salad. Humans have too little meat along the back strap and stomach for him to have bacon as often as he would like. After proper curing, though, the delicate flavor of the cut makes the work worthwhile.

Will has moved on to the eggs. Good. He needs the protein.

Hannibal's eyes linger on Will's left elbow, hidden beneath the robe. Will had been deeply asleep by the time the bag of fluids was empty. Hannibal retrieved a venipuncture kit from his car and siphoned a single vial of rich, dark blood from his vein. Only a highly skilled expert could extract blood from the same puncture wound without damaging the vein or causing bruising.

Blood is always best fresh. Hannibal savored every warm drop as Will slept nearby.

When Hannibal tears his eyes away from Will's elbow, he sees that Will has finished the eggs and begun toying with the oatmeal. Time to move on.

"How often do you suffer panic attacks?" he asks.

He relishes the rich, dark Columbian coffee as he studies the emotions that flicker across Will's face.

"Not often," Will answers, staring the oatmeal. "I haven't had a real one since I worked homicide."

"And before that?"

Will's jaw muscles clench. A faint tremor runs through his body. Hannibal sees him begin to regulate his breathing.

"They were bad when I was a teenager. I had limited symptom attacks when I was a cop. Not many, but enough. Only a few when I was in grad school."

He sighs heavily, still staring at his plate.

"Homicide – I had three full-blown attacks my first month there. The first one lasted for hours. More limited symptom attacks than I cared to count, too. All in the first year. Then they went away for the most part."

He scrubs his face with his hands as if trying to banish the past.

"Successful treatment?"

Will nods, lifting his eyes to meet Hannibal's. "Breathing exercises. Self-administered behavioral and cognitive therapy. It's second nature now."

"You have exerted control over the anxiety that threatens to overwhelm you." He intonates the sentence with admiration. It is no small feat, what Will has done.

Will runs a hand over his face again. "I wish sleepwalking were as easy to deal with."

"It can be," Hannibal ventures. "But in your case, perhaps prevention is the best medicine."

Will looks up sharply. "And let people die."

"That is what Jack tells you," Hannibal says. "You are not God, Will."

"I'm not having this discussion again," Will says firmly, his eyes blazing.

"Forgive me," Hannibal says with a disarming smile. He rises and collects the dishes.

Will puts his elbows on the table and rests his head in his hands.

Will is not God: his moral compass is too pure. And yet, unlike so many who share the impulse to moral purity, Will is neither a charlatan nor a demagogue. His guilt tortures him. He never sees the best of himself.

Hannibal will show him the best of himself. In time.

"I didn't mean to snap," Will says when Hannibal returns to the table.

"I should not have pushed you," Hannibal replies.

Will nods tiredly. "Thank you – for everything you've done."

The sincerity in his eyes pierces Hannibal.

"You are most welcome," Hannibal replies with a smile. "I have a dinner engagement tonight, but perhaps I might return tomorrow with breakfast? We have yet to discuss the case."

"Sure," Will says and swallows water with a wince.

"The antibiotics will have reduced the pain in your throat by then, too," Hannibal adds.

"Good," Will says. "Tylenol isn't doing much and codeine makes me sleep."

"Sleep is best for you now," Hannibal says. "Or rest, if the dreams are bad."

Will shakes his head. "They're not."

"Then you should sleep."

Will nods. Hannibal places a hand on his shoulder. "I shall see you tomorrow, my friend."

When Will looks up at him, his eyes are chaotic with competing emotions. The calm sincerity of gratitude and friendship; the fire of lust. Underneath, the stormy sea of fear.

Hannibal must become Will's anchor.

In time, he thinks as Will sees him out.

All in good time.


End file.
